


Because John is dead

by BrightBlueEyes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightBlueEyes/pseuds/BrightBlueEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is dead, he repeats endlessly to himself. John wasn't a sociopath, to leave a friend dangling, tormented by grief.  The body was found.  John hasn't been seen in months.  Because John is dead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Sherlock realizes when he wakes is that it's quiet. Hospital quiet. He doesn't open his eyes right away, instead listening to the beep and whir of the heart monitor to left side of his head. He takes in the smell of antiseptic and has to force himself not to wrinkle his nose. He has hated that smell ever since he was a small boy and Mummy would bring him to visit his Grandmere before she died.   
He shakes his head slightly to shift that memory to the side, reaching for the one he needs. Albanian arms dealers. Tracking them. Warehouse. Fire. Explosion. John.  
The first thing Sherlock sees when he opens his eyes is the figure in the chair next to the bed.  
John. He blinks. No, Mycroft. 

“John.” 

Mycroft's eyes deaden and his lips purse. 

“No. I'm sorry.” he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

_Ping._

Sherlock ignores the third text alert noise of the morning. He is laid out on the couch of Baker Street staring at the ceiling. _He can't think._ He can hear Mrs Hudson answer the door downstairs and the footsteps trail upwards but he doesn't have the energy to open his eyes.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade sits on the coffee table at Sherlock's feet. “Please, will you come?”

No answer. There never is. Not anymore. Sherlock's skin has healed on his hands where the blast threw him back into the street. His shoulder has regained full motion after a few weeks of physical therapy. It's almost like it never happened.

“Sherlock. Look,” Lestrade scrubs his hand down his tired face. “I need your help. It's the case. Your case. John's case.” he finishes in a whisper.

“John's dead. Gone.” Sherlock sits up and pulls his feet under himself.

“Sherlock we've lost one of the men. We can't find him. We need your help. He's the only one left. Sherlock please.” Lestrade holds out a manilla folder with a picture. A polaroid of a man, about 5”7, athletic, jean clad, short cropped hair. Sherlock's heart stops.

“No.” he says before he can stop himself. “No. John is dead.” He doesn't know if he's telling Lestrade or himself.


	3. Chapter 3

The man wakes because he's being kicked lightly by a copper. “Oi, mate, can't sleep here. Move on, yeah?” The bobby yanks his head to the side in a distinct “this means now” gesture. The man gets up and pulls himself to full military height before dusting off his jeans. He doesn't know why. The officer twitches slightly. The man gives him a full once over, taking in his shiny gold ring (newly married), scuffed boots (walking cop, so, not very high ranking), coffee stain on his collar, catsup on his trousers.

“Yeah, I'm going.” he says.

It's cold. He's glad he found the coat in the skip the other day, otherwise he'd be really fucking cold. He tugs his knitted hat down over his cheek. It's one of those laplander type hats, with the bits that hang down for which the man is very grateful. He doesn't know how he got the scars, just that they make people uncomfortable. He doesn't know much of anything, really. He's pretty sure he has military training. He doesn't remember any of it, but sometimes, like just then with the policeman, his muscles remember. He can feel it. He thinks too that he's been a doctor. Once, right after he woke up on the street, he was in a shelter bathroom assessing himself. The scar on his face was itchy, which he remembered vaguely meaning it was still healing. But then, he had an older scar on his shoulder. The left one.

_“I never guess.”_ The memory ghosts across the back of his mind. Just a voice. Almost a whisper. It's all he has. And so he walks. Hunts. For what he doesn't know. He knows he must be alone now, because no one has looked for him.

Have they?


	4. Chapter 4

Today he walks past Knox St and Madame Tussaud’s. There's a small dance studio and he has to stop and turn to avoid the gaggle of small girls that comes out. His heart aches for a second. Does he have a daughter somewhere that giggles like that? A wife with long chestnut hair that smells like satsuma and kisses him after work? He can't imagine it. No, he decides, he doesn't have that.

He limps around the corner to the strains of an accordion. This is another thing he does not know. He cannot find any evidence of injury, and yet occasionally, he will begin to limp. He can't tell for sure yet, but he thinks it has something to do with a memory. Almost like, certain places his subconscious remembers that he himself does not. He can smell the pasta sauce and garlic bread in the cool evening air and, judging by the number of people on the street, he realises it must be Friday. Fridays are usually good. Lots of well cooked food, usually he doesn't mind this skip.

There's another bloke, goes by the name Frank, they sometimes meet up here. Frank is an old Afghanistan war veteran. He tells the man sometimes that he should go into one of the organizations, see if they can look him up.

“They keep records of old fucks like us you know. Especially ones what get shot at.” Frank will laugh and take a swig of whatever he can afford that night.

The man never takes what's offered. The smell makes him sick. He catches sight of Frank and waves.

Yeah, Fridays are always good at Angelo's.


	5. Chapter 5

As Sherlock thumbs the photo in his pocket, he tells himself he is still looking for a missing Armenian. John is dead. He buried him. Well, Mycroft and Lestrade buried him. Sherlock had still been in hospital. Not that he would have gone anyway. John wouldn't have wanted that.

“What do you know of what John would have wanted?” his mind hisses at him. 

He blinks and shakes his head to the side. Violently. Brown, tired eyes narrow suspiciously in the mirror. The old cabbie thinks he's drug seeking. What else could he possibly be doing at this time of night? Sherlock has already been to Brixton, the Vauxhaull Arches and Southampton Street. He's directed the cabbie to Soho. It's the last place he's going to look. No one knows anything. He's shown this picture to some of his best people to no avail. There has been no sign of this man leaving the country. This Paghishetsi. Mycroft would know. Apparently Lestrade went to him first.

“We're here. You've got ten minutes, and then I'm leaving, mate.” says the cabbie. 

Sherlock doesn't need near that long. A picture flashed. Money changes hands. Non recognition. No information. Sentiment? Perhaps. The tiny flicker of hope must be quashed. No. There is no time. It must be now. Then five minutes back to the flat, he should just make it. He hadn't. But he does now. 

Back to the cab with a muttered “Baker Street.”  
He doesn't make it. The lights flicker too fast. The cabbie asks where on Baker Street, but he can't answer. He doesn't hear him. It's not meant to be like this. It's supposed to be better, not worse. There's yelling as Sherlock is pulled out of the cab. He can't be bothered to stand so he doesn't. The wall catches him. John would have caught him. 

But John is dead.


	6. Chapter 6

The man is tired of the rude awakenings. One can't expect much, sleeping rough like this, but for fuck sake, twice in one day is a bit much.

“Oi!” The man rolls the drunk off of him. Shit. He doesn't move.

He's also not drunk. His mouth is moving slightly but no sound is coming out. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darting back and forth at an inhuman speed. Dark curls are plastered to the left side of his forehead where he must've hit brick. The man can smell the rust tinge. Fuck. He's up and behind the stranger, pulling at him to sit him up against the wall. Asphyxiation on one's own vomit is bad. The stranger slumps to one side. The man's fingers go to his neck and he begins counting as he reaches down to the stranger's left hand where he knows he'll find a black banded watch to count off the seconds. Pulse is elevated. So stimulant.

The man straddles the brunette and holds his head up, looking into the wild grey eyes.

“What did you take?” he asks, mostly to himself. One of the stranger's hands shoots up and grips the man's coat. There's almost something in his eyes like recognition. But there can't be.

“John.” a whisper.

The man's heart skips. That voice. _No._ The stranger's head lolls to one side. The man shakes him. Nothing. Harder. Nothing still. No. He rolls him to his stomach and steps out of the alley, making absolutely sure the damaged side of his face is covered. Red telephone booth.

He dials emergency services.


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing Sherlock realises when he wakes is that it's quiet. Hospital quiet. His teeth clench and his heart breaks a little bit. There's a ruffle to his right side and he realizes there's a hand in his.

“Sherlock, I know you're awake. I can read these machines. I am a doctor after all.”

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly. He refuses to turn his head because he knows if he does, he won't see. His neck muscles don't get the message and his head angles of it's own volition.

“At least, that's what they tell me.” John smiles down at him.

“John.”A whisper.

“Yeah. That's me. That much I remember. Sort of.” he looks off to the side. “I um, when the ambulance got there, one of the attendants recognized you. She called in a Detective Inspector who looked really angry with you. And then cried when he saw me.” John stops, searching.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock supplies.

“Lestrade. Yeah. He rang up Mycroft, who I definitely remember. British Government, CIA on a freelance basis.” he chuckles. “So basically I've been given a shower, a check up and the ten cent tour of my life. Mycroft handed me my service record to go through. Says I have a blog and that we get into all sorts of interesting troubles. Some kind of amateur detectives-”

“Consulting Detective.” Sherlock corrects. 

“Yeah he said you'd say that.” John laughs.

“You aren't dead.” Sherlock finally says.

“It would seem not, no. Apparently, it's called retrograde amnesia. I still don't remember a lot. I may never remember everything, and I probably won't remember what happened that night at the warehouse. But, since physically, I'm perfectly healthy, and I have somewhere to go home to, the doctor couldn't technically keep me. I have to make an appointment with my therapist, which Mycroft promised I would do. The only way cure me, per say, is what's called Reminder Treatment. Immersing myself in my old life and waiting to see what comes back.” John rubs his thumb along the webbing of Sherlock's right hand. Sherlock looks pointedly at their joined hands with a questioning look.

“The doctor said that when you woke up, you might be belligerent, given the way you went down. I thought maybe if you felt some kind of connection, it might help orient you.” John shrugged. “And if it's one thing I remember, it's alone. You didn't deserve to wake up to that.” Sherlock doesn't let go.

They are silent for awhile. The steady beep beep of the heart monitor and the occasional hum and whoosh of the blood pressure machine as it filled and deflated.

“John? Why were you in the alley behind Baker Street?” asks Sherlock.

“Hmm? Oh I don't know. Sometimes I would do that. Sleep there. I felt safe but I didn't know why.” John rubs his right leg a bit.

“I think I do.” smiles Sherlock. “I think your body remembered our flat and was trying to get you back.”

“Sherlock? Why were YOU in the alley behind Baker Street?”

Sherlock's eyes dart away. “I don't know, John.”

“I think I do.” smiles John. “Because you're an idiot.”

 

 

-fin


End file.
